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The Iron Islands – Pyke
Pyke, the ancestral seat of House Greyjoy, was the very symbol of the Iron Islands. The castle looked like a stone monster that had clawed its way straight up from the sea floor—raw, brutal, and dripping with menace.
It perched on a jagged headland, three massive rock towers linked by narrow stone bridges that spanned sheer cliffs dropping dozens of feet into crashing surf. White foam boiled at the base where the waves never stopped hammering the rock.
There was nothing pretty about it. No fancy walls, no carvings, just rough stone and practical defenses. Ironborn architecture had never cared about beauty—only strength and position. Enemies could come from the sea, the sky, or even crawling out of the depths.
The Great Hall of Pyke sat atop the tallest rock, shaped like an overturned longship. Inside, a perpetual hearth fire fought the damp sea wind and the constant chill. Banners and trophies covered the walls: torn sails, rusted weapons, enemy skulls. The air smelled of salt, smoked fish, and wet stone.
At the far end of the hall, on the raised dais, Balon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone Chair.
The chair had been carved from a single slab of black stone, polished smooth as glass. The back curved like a breaking wave; the armrests were sculpted into writhing kraken tentacles. Legend said the First Men had dragged it from the ocean floor. Whoever sat on it could supposedly hear the sea whispering. To the Ironborn it was more than a throne—it was the living symbol of power, the last gift of the Grey King.
Balon was past fifty, but hardship had aged him further. His hair had gone iron-grey and was cropped short against his scalp. Deep-set grey eyes, sharp as knives, studied everything with cold calculation. He wore plain leather and a grey cloak, no jewels. Ironborn scorned soft southern decorations; they respected only strength.
He had always followed the Old Way. He dreamed of the days when Ironborn were kings of the sea, when "King of the Isles and the Rivers" meant something and the entire west coast of Westeros was their hunting ground.
He had come close once. He had made the Iron Islands independent. But Robert Baratheon crushed the rebellion, and Balon had been forced to bend the knee. That shame still burned in him like a brand. The defeat had also cost him his last trueborn son—taken as a hostage to Winterfell while he watched, helpless.
Beside him stood his daughter and chosen heir, Asha Greyjoy.
She was tall for a woman, nearly as tall as her father, with the hard, angular build of a reaver. Her black hair was pulled back tight with oil and tied with rope so it wouldn't blind her in a fight. She wore practical leather breeches, a mail shirt, and a belt heavy with short axe and dagger. Her eyes held the same unyielding grey steel as Balon's.
Asha was already a proven Ironborn captain. Her crew was battle-hardened, veterans of raids on the Summer Isles and the Jade Sea. Still, being a woman was her one weakness. In a world where most lords refused to take orders from a female, many captains quietly muttered about calling a kingsmoot to choose a new ruler.
The Iron Islands were not like the green lands. A lord could be chosen by the captains at a kingsmoot. House Greyjoy had kept its grip through ruthless strength, vast fleets, and the Iron Throne's reluctant blessing. Balon's control was still ironclad, so even the grumblers only complained behind closed doors. For now.
A dozen Ironborn captains and chieftains filled the lower benches, talking in low voices. They had been summoned for something important.
"He's here," a lookout announced, dropping to one knee at the door.
Balon gave a short nod. "Bring him in."
A few minutes later Salladhor Saan strode into the Great Hall.
The Lysene pirate's appearance clashed violently with everything Ironborn. He wore a purple velvet doublet embroidered with gold thread—rumpled from the voyage but still flashy. Thick gold chains hung around his neck, gemmed rings flashed on his fingers, and his curved sword's scabbard was inlaid with ivory and pearl. His sun-browned skin, oiled black curls, and neatly trimmed mustache completed the picture of a wealthy, smirking southern rogue.
"King Balon!" Salladhor boomed, spreading his arms theatrically. "It has been too long! You still look as hard as a reef that has beaten the sea for a thousand years!"
A few captains grumbled. The flowery southern style grated on them. Balon lifted one hand for silence.
He didn't mind the title "King Balon." Even though he was officially only Lord Reaper of Pyke now, the old hunger for the crown still stirred whenever someone used it.
"Salladhor," Balon rasped, voice like sandpaper on stone, "I thought you'd died in one of those bloody skirmishes in the Stepstones by now."
Balon had spent his younger years raiding in the Stepstones when his own father refused to let the Ironborn return to the Old Way. That was where he had first met this man. Salladhor claimed to be a descendant of some famous Lysene pirate lord, but to Balon he had always looked more like a merchant than a true reaver.
"Ah, death chases me, but I run faster!" Salladhor laughed. He dragged a chair forward without waiting for an invitation and sat down. Several captains frowned and rested hands on their weapons.
Salladhor ignored them. He pulled a silver flask from inside his doublet, took a long pull, and sighed happily. "Lysene firewine. Care for a swallow, my dear King Balon?"
"Get to the point," Balon said coldly. "Why have you come all the way to Pyke? The Stepstones are half a world away."
Salladhor corked the flask and leaned forward, smile turning sly. "I come to offer a deal—one that can make House Greyjoy great again."
Asha stepped forward, arms crossed, looking down at the Lysene like he was something the tide had washed up. "The Iron Islands don't need southern bargains. We have longships, warriors, and the sea's favor. That's enough."
"Truly?" Salladhor arched an eyebrow. "I hear life has been hard since the rebellion. King Robert limited your fleet, demands iron and salt tribute every year, and took your last son as hostage."
His gaze slid to Balon. "Theon Greyjoy—your youngest—has been a ward in Winterfell for… what, nine years? Ten?"
Balon's face darkened. Theon was an open wound. That failed rebellion had cost him two older sons in battle and the last one as a political prisoner. Only Asha remained—and a daughter ruling the Ironborn was unheard of.
Asha had proven herself a capable captain, but tradition died hard. Many old captains still whispered that no woman should sit the Seastone Chair.
"Theon is none of your concern," Balon warned.
"But what if I told you I could bring him home?" Salladhor leaned in, voice dropping. "Unharmed. Back to Pyke. Back to your side."
The hall went dead silent. Every Ironborn stared at the dark-skinned Lysene, suspicion and sudden hope thick in the air.
That rebellion had scarred more than just House Greyjoy. It had humiliated every Ironborn who still believed in the Old Way. If their last male heir returned, they would no longer have to kneel to a woman.
Asha broke the silence first. "How could you possibly manage that? Theon is Ned Stark's ward and a hostage. Taking him would be seen as a declaration of war by the entire North."
"Theon was sent north because he was the only son still breathing after the war," she added coldly. "Of the four great houses in the old alliance—wolf, falcon, stag, and fish—only Winterfell was far from the sea and already had children. Ned Stark sits second on my father's list of men he hates most."
"Timing and cleverness," Salladhor said with a mysterious smile. "And the man I serve… has the power to make it happen."
"The man you serve," Balon repeated, eyes narrowing like a hawk's. "That is the real question, Salladhor. We've known each other a long time—Summer Isles, the Jade Sea, plenty of dealings. You're a clever merchant, but you were never a real pirate. I never believed you could unify half the Stepstones on your own, let alone hold your ground when Bloodbeard Summers and One-Eye Moro both turned on you. That's not your style."
The Ironborn always gathered intelligence. Balon's own father had died because he misread the green lands. Ever since, the Iron Islands kept careful watch on the wider world, waiting for the day they could rise again.
Salladhor's smile faltered for half a heartbeat, then returned. "Men change, my dear King Balon. Perhaps I learned new tricks."
"From the ruins of Valyria?" Asha sneered. "I heard you bragging in every tavern that you sailed into the Smoking Sea, found lost Valyrian treasure, and came back rich enough to outfit a fleet. The cursed place that kills dragons—and you walked out alive?"
Salladhor gave a dry chuckle. "A bit exaggerated. But yes… I received some outside help."
"Whose help?" Balon pressed.
Salladhor glanced around at the hard-eyed captains watching him like sharks. For the first time a flicker of real unease crossed his face.
The task Pierce Celtigar had given him—unify the Stepstones, create a stable pirate confederation to clear the trade routes—had sounded simple. It was anything but. The Stepstones were hundreds of jagged islands guarding the Narrow Sea's throat, a pirate paradise fought over for centuries by Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh.
Salladhor had made swift progress at first, especially after Pierce removed the witch Lys and handed him her entire network plus gold and ships. He had bought off small crews and swallowed weaker bands. In months he controlled more than a dozen islands and commanded a respectable fleet.
But the two biggest powers—Bloodbeard Summers and One-Eye Moro—remained. That was where the real trouble began.